


Efficiency, Part I

by ViktoryKill



Series: The Mission X Chronicles [4]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bullying, Galra Keith (Voltron), Half-Human, Holidays, M/M, Missions, Oblivious Keith (Voltron), Other, Pining Lance (Voltron), Self-Reflection, Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26207959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViktoryKill/pseuds/ViktoryKill
Summary: Lance feels lonely on his holiday, and would like to think it's not because of a certain someone. Keith, meanwhile, does his three favorite things: sweat, bleed, and train.When they return to the base, an infamous surprise mission is awaiting them...
Relationships: Keith & Lance (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: The Mission X Chronicles [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894618
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Efficiency, Part I

The holiday was supposed to be a time of celebrating. Rekindling with loved ones, and kicking back for a bit, resting up for the next six months of intense training.

Lance was grateful for it; you'd never hear him say otherwise, he'd be a fool if he did. But he wasn't feeling as happy as he thought he would. As he usually did on holidays.

He was glad to see his mom and dad, of course. Glad to catch up with his friends from around town, who had never left Earth and were mind blown at the very idea of aliens and exploring unknown planets. He loved to watch their faces light up with curiosity as he told his tales, and how they looked up to him as the ultimate authority on matters of intergalactic travel.

It was nice.

For sure.

But he found himself missing the base a lot more than he'd expected. And he couldn't pinpoint why.

Still, his subconscious played not-so-subtle games on his mind, when he was asleep, or just in that foggy state between wakefulness and dreams.

Visions of a face would come to his mind, at first blurred and indistinct, slowly getting clearer until he could make out the sunlight glinting on each strand of black hair. See the mellow glow reflected in the black eyes. See the sly smile, the confident arch of the shoulders, that blatant dash of defiance.

Then he would smile slyly himself, remembering other things. Things that he really should throw in the closet of his memory and throw away the key to, but which rose again and again to the surface before he could even resist them.

It made him uneasy, how pleasant these memories were. Even as he felt remorse and guilt - and most of all, disgust with himself - his eyes glazed with joy and desire and he sighed, wishing he could do it all again...

Keith, meanwhile, was back on his home world, sweating, training, and bleeding. I.e., his three favorite activities in the world. Some would call him obsessed with greatness. Drunk with the idea of being first in line, the best that has ever been.

But he wasn't.

He just liked to feel himself in action, to realize the strength and ability he had within his own limbs, the power he could generate with nothing but himself.

He'd caught a lot of flak as a kid, when he was smaller than average, lank and malnourished-looking, barely strong enough to do five push-ups. "Fuckin' loser," the guys in his sector teased. "He's not a real Galra. He's fuckin' mutant scum, got bones of milk. Can't do nothin' like _we_ can."

And it wasn't limited to the kids. No, what irked Keith more was hearing from the adults - the so-called professionals, whose opinions were respected and actually valued. They, too, said that Keith would likely remain behind, physically and mentally, due to his - as they delicately phrased it - "less-than-favorable heritage."

He hated them with a passion at the time, but these days he couldn't help but smile wryly thinking back on what they'd said. In a way, he had to thank them for giving him the drive he had now. The relentless drive to better himself. To find out, for himself, what he could and could not do. To discover his own limits and boundaries.

And what had happened? Damn if he wasn't the highest-ranked in every fucking sector. Not just on Galra. _In their entire planetary system._

It also made him smile to think of how the higher-ups - the same higher-ups who had doubted his abilities in the beginning - now fawned over him, singing his praises and skillfully downplaying - and sometimes outright obscuring - the fact that he wasn't pure Galra material.

Keith grinned. It didn't matter. They were fucking fakes and fools to boot, and everyone who was actually training in the galactic forces - and therefore had to deal with their asses on a regular basis - knew it. 

He raced forward, adrenaline flashing in his eyes as he slashed at the simulated enemy in front of him. Cut straight through its vital organs, dismantling it with one blow. Smiled as he watched it dissolve into liquid crystals, melting into a sparkling pool right under his feet.

Smiled as he raised his blade to his face, passing it lightly across his tongue and licking the gentle stream of blood that trickled from the paper-thin wound it made.

He loved the taste of blood; his own, that of his enemies, that of anyone who had fallen at his hands. It wasn't that he was sadistic - or at least, he didn't think he was.

Blood was a life force. It meant a lot. Just like sweat, just like tears. If you could weasel it out of someone, you were conniving. It was a victory, sort of. But if you could wrench it from someone by force - from sheer will, determination, cleverness, and strength - well. That was a victory, and no one could take the scent or the taste of it away from you.

"Keith?"

It was the janitor, a mild old guy with mousey teeth and whiskers, coming to turn off the lights and lock the doors.

 _Shit._ Keith looked at his watch. Was it that late already? 

"I'm hoping you're almost finished there," the old man's voice was like thick brushes stroking paint on a wall. "It's time for the lock-up and for everyone to get home." 

Keith chuckled inwardly. How did this old dude even still have a job? Sure, tradition was a big thing on Galra, but seriously. Janitors were very 21st century. Like an ancient relic of a past time.

"Yeah, I'm heading out," he said. For some reason, though, he didn't immediately get a move on. Just stood there in the dim lights of the gym, staring at the old man's graying hairs, thinking thoughts but not able to place what they were about.

The old man kept walking, thwaffing his broom about haphazardly as he did. Dust leapt out of corners like small animals.

Keith watched, mesmerized.

"If you want a lollipop, there are several in the counter up front." The old man raised his eyebrows, cheerfully sarcastic. "One of the sweetest things Earth has ever blessed the Universe with," he added thoughtfully.

Keith nodded, putting his blade back in its sheath around his waist. "I wish I was still a kid sometimes," he said. "Getting free lollys from everyone."

"Do you now? I'd expect what you get now is far more fulfilling. Medals, gold, accolades. Your wall must be covered in ribbons, eh?" And the old man pushed past with a half-wet mop, smiling.

* * *

The first day back at the training quarters was a mixed bag.

Some guys were happy and eager to get back to work.

Others were like, "Eh, back to hell."

And still others were overly impatient to finish up already and get to the actual stations they were training for.

Lance fell squat between the first and second, contradictory as it may seem. He was both delighted to be back, ready and waiting for the next adventure; and at the same time, _damn_. Those everlasting workouts on monotonous gym equipment, and push-ups, sit-ups, and who knows what else every fucking night.

When he first stepped through the heavily air-conditioned hallways, he wondered why the hell he'd even missed this place to begin with. It smelled nasty, with that sickly sweet, overperfumed professional stank; and it'd be a good month before the trainees were even sent out any missions again.

There was really nothing worth missing, at least not to the extent Lance had missed it while he was gone.

Then he saw him.

Keith. Kogane.

The dude who always looked like a wedge was being driven down his throat and piercing his bodily organs. Or that he was driving that wedge into somebody else.

The dude who you had to catch smiling, the way you might try to catch a mosquito in the dark or fireflies in broad daylight.

The dude who was highest in the class, getting more famous by the day and who would likely be legendary by the time he was through.

Ordinarily, Lance would've rolled his eyes at such a reputation for sure; experience had taught him that half the "aces" that got touted about were fucking trash. Not just compared to Lance, but compared to almost everyone who was decently skilled. It was like with most pop stars (at least in Lance's frank opinion). Great reputation, but shit product.

But Keith? Hell, Lance sparred with him all the time, got to see him in action up close and personal day after day. The man - or boy, really - was definitely every bit as good as people said. Maybe even better.

None of these things, however, had anything to do with why Lance was staring at him the way he was. Why the electricity jolted through his brain and crackled through his nerves. It was... the _aura_ of the dude. More specifically, the way his aura bounced off of Lance's. There was a connection. He could feel it. Tenuous, slight, probably should've been broken a long time ago. But it was there, even if Keith was as icy and indifferent as ever towards him (and every other soul for that matter).

" _Why the fuck are you looking at me like that_?"

  
As if on cue. Lance grinned. "Because you're cute and handsome and my sister's really into you." he teased.

Some of the guys nearby snickered. "Good one!" someone shouted.

Keith flushed involuntarily; probably the first time Lance had seen him do that, and it made him bust out laughing. Keith gave him the finger, forcefully mouthing "Fuck you" before storming ahead down the hall. 

Lance took a short breath, no doubt to shout something insulting, but he was taken aback by the nice scent Keith had left in passing. Fuck, it was beautiful. A fine tropical scent, like almonds and sea breeze, blending perfectly with something more wild, more undefinable.

Lance inhaled again, but most of the scent had already been carried away, replaced by the standard AC ice water. He sighed, disappointed, but quickly forced himself to focus on everyday, normal, getting-back-into-the-swing stuff. Like securing the bed he'd had before, and making sure he got the best locker.

* * *

Contrary to Lance's belief, the next mission came only two days after they'd arrived back at the training grounds.

A special sort of mission, always carefully timed to be a surprise to the trainees. A mission formally known as "Operation Exile," but whispered and joked about among the guys as "Rise of the Space Madness."

It was a simulation in which you were out 400 miles above the planet, at first being closely monitored and completely on course, no worries. But as time went on, your instruments would begin to malfunction, and many other glitches would occur, such as radio static, ominous messages, screams.

If you were able to ignore this and not get frightened; to cut through the bullshit and realize that at the end of the day, you were just sitting on the floor of the training grounds and were safe, you would see yourself home safely and that would be that.

But if you couldn't ignore this, and couldn't isolate the reality from the illusions in front of you, your fear would generate increasingly terrifying glitches - threatening images, sounds, distortion - the works.

It was such a cool concept in and of itself, it had become the stuff of legend mere months after its inception. And now that 20 years had gone by, you can only imagine the kind of stories were being told about it.

Keith was nearly salivating, standing in the line, as he listened to the instructor tell the students what they were in for (not that they didn't know already). He _lived_ for challenges like this. 


End file.
